“Little Billy Jenkins: Nice.”

“Give him an iPod,” growls Kringle.

“Noted,” says the elf. “DeWon Phelps: nice.”

“iPod!”

The elf frowns. “Murdock Vermilion. Naughty.”

“Black iPod.”

“Really!” the elf protests. “Doesn’t that reward–”

“iPod!” snarls Kringle, snatching a white box from the stack and devouring it. “iPongh! IPHOMPH!”

That night, when it actually starts snowing iPods, one CEO surveys the blizzard with resignation. “It’s time,” he says. “Woztongue, fetch the sled.”

“But sir!” whimpers Woztongue. “His defenses are impregnable!”

“Nothing’s hackproof,” says the CEO grimly, activating the iDogs and skimming out onto the shattered plastic. “Santa Jobs is coming to town.”